


bad nights lead to better days

by 26miledrive



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:28:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26miledrive/pseuds/26miledrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is nothing like last year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bad nights lead to better days

**Author's Note:**

> listen sometimes you need sap to overcome the tragedy of a game seven loss. that's what this is. refers back to [you don't miss twice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/263571), but you don't need to read that one first to understand this one. that one is just happier. ALL MY TEARS, etc.

**bad nights lead to better days**

Carey watches it happen in slow motion -- the rebound, the deflection, the effortless shot by Ward that ends the Bruins' season and their quest to repeat as Stanley Cup champions. And he can't help the initial euphoria -- he can't help it, okay, he's a Canadien and these are his _arch-rivals_ \-- but he doesn't clap along with the handful of Caps fans who are around him. There aren't many in his section; he's sitting along with other Bruins' players friends and families, he's not really a secret anymore even though no one really mentions why he's there. 

Not because he's a guy. Because he's a Hab. 

He sits next to Milan Lucic's girlfriend, Brittany Carnegie, who thinks he's hilarious. She's always trying to get him and Krejci to go out on double dates, which makes Carey laugh and makes Krejci stammer like he's forgotten English. Krejci has a bit of a crush on her, which doesn't bother Carey in the slightest. Probably because if he were a girl, he'd _be_ Brittany Carnegie. Except for the fucking Lucic part. Even though, yeah, okay, he'd do that. If Krejci was into it. 

Speaking of Krejci, he's the reason why Carey isn't clapping. He smiles briefly -- they're the fucking _Bruins_ and they just got beaten in game seven in the first round of the playoffs which, ha, _karma!_ \-- but then he sees Krejci, down on the ice, and he stops smiling. 

The Bruins raise their sticks and salute the crowd, and _now_ Carey finds himself clapping. Not for the team, though. 

Just for one of them. 

* * * 

Krejci's always quiet, it's sort of his thing, but this isn't his usual brand of quiet. This isn't even Bruins-on-a-losing-streak quiet, or Bruins-losing-to-the-Hurricanes, _again_ , quiet -- this is quiet that Carey understands very well. This is the sudden and brutal arrival of summer, without warning and completely unwanted. It doesn't matter that they won the Cup last year. This moment is all there is when you're caught up in it -- nothing else is real, nothing else matters. 

Carey knows by now how to get Krejci out of his head when he goes away like this, and he knows when to let him be and let him brood in peace. Mostly he doesn't really do the latter because it's boring, and because Krejci can out-brood a Habs fan, but he can tell the minute Krejci walks up to him in the parking lot that he needs to be left alone. He looks exhausted, and Carey understands _that_ \-- game seven sudden death overtimes are exhausting if you're not the team that wins. He tells himself he's going to be a good boyfriend and he's not going to gloat (he'll do that in a few weeks, after last year he's totally earned it), he's not going to push, he's going to nod calmly and not say a word the entire way back to Krejci's place. 

Krejci surprises him by speaking first. He's holding something out towards him, and his usually quiet voice is even lower than usual, so much so that Carey has to lean in to hear him, to understand what Krejci is handing him. 

It's the car keys. 

Krejci _never_ wants him to drive, he thinks Carey doesn't pay attention, thinks he drives recklessly and pumps the breaks too much and spends too much time winking at pretty girls in the cars they're passing. All of this is true. He also hates Carey's music and thinks it's terrible. That is totally _not_ true. 

Carey takes the keys, stares at him for a second and then pulls Krejci in close for a hug. Krejci struggles immediately, he's tense and stiff in Carey's arms -- and not the kind of stiff Carey likes, either -- and fights to get free with quick, jerky movements. He's muttering in Czech, and Carey's picked up some by now but he can't make out any of the short, harsh syllables. But he doesn't move, doesn't let him go. Carey's job is to stop things that are hurtling towards him with no apparent direction, to keep them from getting past him and becoming all tangled up. 

He might not have had the best season in front of the net for the Canadiens, but he's been doing pretty well with a certain Bruins' forward. "Shh. Stop. Just -- stop it. David. Seriously, come on. I'm trying to hug you." 

Krejci sighs -- it's barely a noise at all, but for him it totally counts as dramatic -- and finally stops fighting, leans in and rests his head on Carey's shoulder. His arms go around Carey's waist, and he hugs him back, right there in the parking lot. He pulls away after a few moments and Carey lets him; he wants to get to the quiet safety of Krejci's apartment just as much as Krejci probably does. 

Krejci looks at him, and it's too dark to see his eyes but Carey doesn't need to see to know how they look. Krejci puts both his hands on Carey's shoulders, chin tilted up and he's clearly going to say something. It's probably going to be sad and make Carey feel bad for him, so he braces himself for it as best he can. 

"It's too cold out to be summer just yet." 

Carey blinks, unsure he heard that right -- and then he laughs, the sound bright in the hushed darkness, and pulls Krejci in to kiss him. He can't help himself, that's just _not_ what he expected to hear at all. It's not really that cold, but that's not the point -- it's the same thing Carey said to _him_ almost a year ago, when this thing between them was so new and tenuous and _tense_ , and the Bruins beat the Habs in overtime in game seven of their series. 

It's been a long year. Things aren't new or tenuous, and if they're tense it's not because of anything between the two of them. But Carey still remembers what Krejci said to him, and he can't help the grin as he repeats it back, word for word. "I'll turn the heat on in the car. Will that make you feel better?" 

"No." Krejci's not smiling, but he's closer to it than Carey thought he'd be. 

"Welllll," Carey drawls, leaning back against the car, grinning suggestively. "What about if we go home and you fuck me into next week, when it's supposed to be like, twenty-seven out? Celsius," Carey clarifies, because Krejci's learned Fahrenheit living in Boston and that wouldn't make any sense. Because obviously that is what Krejci's going to focus on, the fucking weather measurement. Jesus. 

Krejci nods, like Carey just offered to give him a backrub or a free sample of a dessert item at the grocery store. "Do you think." He clears his throat, leans in -- and Carey is expecting him to ask for something _really_ kinky, like ... well, they've done pretty much everything, so who knows but Carey is definitely willing to find out -- but that's not what Krejci wants from him. "Could we have...ice cream." 

For a second Carey thinks _ice cream_ is some kind of code or whatever, but then he remembers Krejci really likes ice cream and doesn't eat it during the season, saying it wasn't good for his training program. Not like, say, sleeping with the Habs' goalie. Krejci has the weirdest priorities. "Sure, babe. Anything you want." 

Krejci nods, leans in like he's going to kiss Carey, maybe. All he does is gently touch his forehead to Carey's shoulder before he pulls away, walks to other side of the car and climbs inside.

Carey doesn't change his driving habits any, but he restrains himself from changing the music to a local country station as he drives. He's a nice guy, what? 

* * * 

They get ice cream at JP Licks, which is crowded enough that Carey has to wait in line for a little while before he can order. He gets the ice cream and goes back to the car, where Krejci has turned off the music and looks like he's asleep, head back against the seat. 

Carey holds the ice cream out solemnly. "You know, when your team beat mine, you fucked me in the backseat of your car. And I got you ice cream. Has the magic died, David?" 

Krejci laughs, tired and rough, and runs a hand through his hair before he answers. "It is very good ice cream, _mazlíček_." 

"Ummm, yeah, but hello...?" Carey waves up and down in front of himself, eyebrows raised.

Krejci does something to his ice cream that looks obscene, or maybe Carey's just being hopeful. "Ice cream first." 

That's good enough for Carey. He drives home, his ice cream making a mess, and Krejci doesn't even mention how it's dripping onto the seat.

* * *

They're barely in the door when Krejci is all over him, shoving him back against the wall, angry and rough and breathing hard before he's even touched him. Carey likes it, but he also really wants to wash his hands, they're sticky with ice cream. Krejci doesn't seem to care; he fucks Carey right there against the door, bites him a little too hard a few times and doesn't take his time like he should so it hurts. 

It's all right. Carey can take it. And it gets him off, obviously, it's really fucking _good_ when Krejci is aggressive and _angry_ like this. Carey feels for him, he does, but fuck he's still going to enjoy this. And loudly, because he knows how much Krejci likes that. 

Afterwards they take a mostly-quiet shower. Carey's too well-fucked to say much, and Krejci doesn't say anything until they get out, the bathroom filled with steam. He runs his hand over his beard, looks thoughtfully at Carey. "Should I shave this, do you think?" 

Carey has a sudden memory of Krejci sitting on the sink, covered in shaving cream while Carey shaved his beard off. It was the morning right before the Stanley Cup parade in Boston, Carey remembers it like it was yesterday. Krejci smiling at him just as brightly as the sun shining through his windows. It's a cool, rainy night in April instead of that warm June morning, and Krejci's not smiling at all. But some things haven't changed. 

Carey still fucking hates the Bruins, but he loves David. Thinking about that morning, he figures he probably did back then, too. At least it would make sense why he'd willingly paid the outrageous prices to fly to Vancouver and back _twice_ in the span of week. And clapped when a Bruin lifted the Cup. 

Okay, yeah, he was definitely in love with him back then. 

Carey reaches out and takes Krejci's face between his hands. _David's_ face, it's the off-season, Carey should really stop calling him by his last name like he's a rival instead of his boyfriend. They didn't have much of a summer last year, what with David having to party with his dumbass teammates and make sure they kept their shirts on, participate in Ference's flash mobs and take trips to the Czech motherland and visit castles and shit. 

(That entire trip is still a blur, Carey remembers drinking a lot of clear alcohol that got him _drunk_ and helping David's mom do the dishes -- apparently she really liked him, or at least that's what David says. Carey sent her a Habs shirt with his name and number on it as a birthday present. David didn't talk to him for a week, it was hilarious. And then he sent Carey's niece a Bruins jersey with _Marchand's_ name on it, and okay, touché, Bruin. touché.) 

"You are feeling my face because...?" 

"Huh? Oh." Carey startles, drawn back to the present. "Leave the beard. I'll shave it for you in a day or two." 

"Yes? I thought you didn't like it. The beard burn. You threatened me, if I remember." 

Clearly Carey isn't the only one thinking about last year. "Yeah, I know I did. Maybe you've figured it out, Bruin. I'm all talk most of the time." Except the part where Carey told him he wasn't going to score a goal on him, because that one turned out to be true. Carey wisely saves that factoid for later. 

David still looks exhausted, his eyes shadowed, but he's nowhere near as tense as he was when the game ended. "I have figured that out, Carey, yes." 

"Hey, I never claimed to be the mysterious one in this relationship." Carey winks at him. "I wear my heart on my sleeve." 

"Except when you wear those shirts without sleeves." 

David has the ability to say things that are totally bitchy and sound like he's not saying them that way. Carey hears him do that in press interviews all the time. "Then I wear it on my awesome biceps, so what."

"Like a tattoo." 

"Let's not make fun of tattoos, Mr. Dragon-on-my-chest." Carey pokes the tattoo. "I know, I know. It was too much vodka and Vladimir Sobotka's fault." He turns serious all of a sudden, taking David's shoulders in his hands and shaking him slightly. "Hey. David." 

David looks at him warily. "I don't want to talk about it. The game. The season. Not yet." 

"Did I say anything about that?" 

"No, but you gave me that look you do, sometimes, when you have too many thoughts about things. Feelings. And you want to talk about them." David looks pained. "Could we maybe not do that, please." 

Carey looks up at the ceiling and sighs. "Yes, David. I mean, no, we don't have to do that. I just -- um. Maybe we do, but just this one thing." Carey takes a deep breath, his heart pounding, and that's dumb -- really dumb, it's not like this isn't true if he doesn't say it. "I love you. Okay? I do. Now can we. Um. Go to bed? Also can I borrow some pajama pants because I don't --" 

He doesn't get to finish that. David moves fast, like he does on the ice when he's zooming towards the net, and presses Carey against the wall. He kisses him hotly, hands all over him like earlier, but there's nothing angry about it, now. He tastes like cookies-n-cream ice cream. " _Taky tě mám rád_ , Carey."

"Is that _yes you can borrow some pants...?_ " Carey smiles against David's mouth, relieved. "Just kidding. I know what it means." 

There's a soft rain hitting against the window when they're finally in bed. Tomorrow will be annoying, there will be the inevitable media backlash and fan disappointment and _trade everyone, fire the coaching staff!_ , and David will blame himself for not doing more, not living up to his potential and expectations. Carey knows this because it's what they all do, when this happens. 

But for tonight, that's all right. There's no shining Cup in either of their futures (there are twenty-four in Carey's past, though, just in case anyone forgot), but it sort of feels like they both won something anyway. 

They may not make a commercial for it or anything, but they totally should.


End file.
